


Of Hearth and Home

by mpatientdreamr



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Leverage
Genre: Crossover, Eliot swears, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mpatientdreamr/pseuds/mpatientdreamr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot comes by it honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Hearth and Home

No, he wasn’t a fuckin’ lawyer with an evil hand. (Gods, he hated television. That was why he didn’t own one.) Eliot was a demigod. Sort of. His dad was a half-breed and his mom was pureblood but low power level. He _definitely_ wasn’t mortal, but he was more powerful than a demigod and less powerful than a pureblood god. Mostly, that meant that he spent as much time on Earth away from his Grammy Hera, who despaired of what her line was coming to.

And when it came to powers, Eliot got it both barrels, some aspect of each of his parents. He could take hits that would fell mortal men, then come home and bake a perfect soufflé. Nobody on Olympus really understood it, except Uncle Ares, and wasn’t _that_ Tartarus for Dad? But, see, his dad might prefer ripping trees out of the ground and beating beasties with them, but Eliot was a knife man. (Swords were just big damn knives, damn it.) Plus, you know weird parental combinations equaled weird power dynamic, so whatever.

But, the point was, he’d never felt compelled to tell anyone that didn’t already know. Most mortals wouldn’t have believed him and the ones that would, well, he didn’t want them to know. And, besides, mortals were sort of…easy come, easy go.

Then he fell in with Nate Ford’s crew. And there was just something about them, something he’d never felt before. They felt like home.

Not Olympus, because he’d always been the odd man out, there. And not the empty apartment where he stored his shit. But that instinctive, indelible feeling of _home_.

So, of course, he started thinking about it.

**Flash**

_Parker was tinkering with a set of locks and he was mostly studying her profile._

_“So, my dad’s Hercules,” he blurted, then scowled._

_Parker, of course, perked right up. “Let’s go steal the Golden Fleece!”_

***end Flash***

Yeah, no. His dad would have kittens or the godly equivalent thereof.

And Sophie…

**Flash**

_“My dad’s Hercules,” he said idly._

_Her eyes lit. “Ooh. Apollo is the god of act-”_

***end Flash***

Eliot would roast in the fires of Tartarus, first.

Hardison?

**Flash**

_“My dad’s Hercules,” Eliot said as Hardison patched him up. Six guys with bats. Bad odds for most. A fun time for Eliot._

_Hardison’s hands stilled on his bruised sides as he stared at him before twisting and shouting, “Hey, Parker! You still got any of them happy pills? I think Eliot needs ‘em.”  
_  
***end Flash***

Because Hardison was a thoroughly modern man and he didn’t truly believe in any gods besides Google. It was, for better or worse, the age of the damn geek. The Golden Age of the gods was over.

But, well, Nate…

**Flash**

_“My dad’s Hercules,” Eliot said, handing him a mug of Irish coffee._

_“I know,” Nate said idly. “I got the memo.”_

***end Flash***

Because Nate knew everything and there was no convincing Eliot that a mortal man was that good, that lucky.

None of that explained why he was brooding about it. (No, he wasn’t a damn vampire with a soul, either. Heavy thoughts required scowling, damn it. He really hated television.)

A gentle hand started running through his hair and he said gruffly, “Don’t think I don’t know you had something to do with this.”

She laughed softly because Hebe, goddess of the hearth, center of the home, his mother, had never feared gruff, rough-and-ready men. It was why her arranged marriage to his father worked surprisingly well. She soothed the savage beast inside him and gave him a place of warmth and peace to rest his head. She was a true prize but it wasn’t until she’d given him a son that he’d come to love her unbearably. That she’d loved him from the beginning came as a surprise to only him.

She pressed a kiss to his temple and murmured, “You should tell them.”

“Mom…” he warned.

She started running a hand through his hair, again. “Your heart finally sings to me as it always has to your father. And the best homes are built on a foundation of trust and honesty.” Her hand left him as her voice started to fade. “I just want you to be happy, my blessed boy.”

And he could never deny his mother anything. (Except grandchildren, because he just wasn’t that kind of man. Demigod. Whatever.)

So, the next time he made the crew dinner, he waited until he’d served a _perfect_ tiramisu, took a deep breath, and casually announced, “So, my dad’s Hercules.”

And Sophie casually kissed his forehead on the way back from the wine cooler (and don’t think he didn’t notice that she had a glass of his best red) and said, “We know, darling. We got the memo.”

Then Parker was shouting at the ceiling that somebody owed her twenty bucks, then whining because drachma didn’t have the same exchange rate and laughing about an old thief.

And Hardison was muttering, “Of course he is. Ain’t nobody as slap happy as you are except him, not even Ares.”

And Eliot looked at Nate, who just saluted him with his glass of Scotch and gave him that eerie ass smirk.

Eliot couldn’t help but think, ‘Sorry, Mom, that’s as solid a foundation as I can build.’

But he still felt that intrinsic feeling of _home_ , so he figured that was alright.


End file.
